


Country Comfort

by Shrompheavennow



Category: Elton John (Musician), Rocketman (2019), Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Angst, Bernie's a cowboy, Cows, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Horses, It's honestly just the three of them being pals, M/M, Mentions of Blood, No Romance, Other, can you tell tumbleweed connection is my favorite album of all time, farmlife baby, ill add more as i go - Freeform, like im serious this is literally about ray and bernie and elton becoming cowboys, mentions of abuse, mentions of disordered eating, obvi rpf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22947895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shrompheavennow/pseuds/Shrompheavennow
Summary: Elton's working himself to the bone and Bernie knows just the thing to get his best friend back on the right track.In other words, the boys finally get around to playing cowboy.Alt. Titles: "This Town Ain't Big Enough for the Two of Us"
Relationships: Elton John & Bernie Taupin, Elton John & Bernie Taupin & Ray Williams, Elton John & John Reid
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9





	Country Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> So this first chapter is a little slow, but I just needed to set up the world so we can really get into it in the next chapter. I got this idea while I was out working with my horses, and I thought I'd share this one (for every like, 100 fics I write, I only post one or two.)

Elton stumbled off stage, the crowd still roaring. He's hardly coherent after shows like these - it's like he leaves his conscious on stage with the audience. Before he can even reach his dressing room, there's a hand gripped around his arm, violently tugging him behind a curtain.

It's John. "You left blood all over the fuckin' piano!" John Reid and all his spite and reprimands.  
Elton looks down at his hands. He hadn't even noticed; The callouses on his fingertips had blistered and bled from playing so hard, so recklessly. John grabs his wrist roughly.

"I'm sorry, I got excited," Elton whimpers, trying to squirm away.  
John points a finger in his face, "Don't let it happen again. You'll scare off the fans." Just like that, he stalks off once again.  
That's how most shows ended nowadays. He'd be on top of the world after a performance, only for John to bring him back down to Earth and beat his ego to a pulp. This time wasn't nearly as harsh, in hindsight. One show he pulled Elton into the green room to tell him he looked like a lardarse right before a press interview. He didn't eat for three days after that.

With his adrenaline leveling back out, he was painfully aware of the stinging in his fingertips. It was almost too much - the pain of his fingers, the fabric of his stagegear clinging to his sweaty, exhausted body, the deep ache in his knees and the balls of his feet from his platform boots. The roar of the crowd's still ringing in his ears, beating at the back of his skull, until suddenly his feet are moving towards the dressing room at a disorienting pace and he's slamming the door shut behind him. He throws himself into the swivel chair at his dressing mirror, hastily removing his glasses before burying his head in his hands.  
It's much more peaceful in the dressing room. The cheers from outside are muffled, just enough to where he can hear the sound of his own ragged breathing. John almost never came into the dressing room anyway, not unless he was looking for a shag before the show. It was almost always the most tranquil place in the entire auditorium.  
He takes a moment, trying to recollect himself before beginning to shuck his stagegear off his shoulders. 

"You've lost weight." A voice breaks out behind him, causing Elton to nearly jump out of his skin as he spun around.

"Jesus shit, Bernie!" He catches himself, redressing as he nearly stumbles backwards when he sees his best friend on the couch behind him. He hadn't even seen the younger man when he walked into the dressing room, still stuck in his own head from the show. 

Bernie laughs, “Christ, sorry mate.”  
“Yeah, har-har, very funny. Give me a bloody heart attack, why don’t you,” Elton snarls under his breath. “What are you doing here, anyway? Come to give me a hard time?”

Bernie’s amusement quickly turns to genuine concern upon seeing how tense his friend was. They were best friends - but here Elton was, after a few months of not seeing Bernie, with his lip curled and his shoulders defensively hunched. 

“I came to see you, Elton. Are you alright?” There was no point in beating around the bush. The singer’s eyes were dark with exhaustion, the full cheeks that Bernie was so fond of were now scarce, his face looking strangely sunken and hollow. Bernie's eyes scanned down Elton's unusually bony body, only to stop at his hands.  
"Reg, you're bleeding," Bernie got up swiftly, going to the cabinets next to the mirror to look for a first-aid kit.  
"God, don't remind me," Elton looked back down at his hands, still stained from the performance. He turned to Bernie, now armed with a box of band-aids and alcohol swabs. Instinctively, Elton let himself settle back down into the swivel chair, allowing Bernie to take his hands in his own with the utmost care. He's gentle, so much more gentle than John, he's more gentle than Elton is with himself.  
"This is gonna sting, mate," Bernie tears open the alcohol swab, but he doesn't pull away. The little swab cleans up the blood, Elton gritting his teeth the whole way through. His fingertips, while still irritated, are cleaned and bandaged within a few minutes. Bernie doesn't let go of Elton.

"Reg, liste-"

"Elton."  
Bernie was taken back, letting go of the older man. He's one of the few people Elton let call him by his given name. He rolls his shoulders, tries to act like he hasn't just been punched in the gut by a single word. 

"Elton, do you know how much a cow costs?"

The singer stares at him for a moment, mouth open.  
"Bernie, what the fuck are you on?"

"Answer the question, Elton."

"What?"

"How much do cows cost?"

Elton pursed his lips, frustrated. Bernie was usually the more sensible of the two, but he had moments like this. Moments of pure, unadulterated stupid.  
"I don't fucking know, Bernie!" Elton threw his hands up.

"Roughly twenty quid," Bernie answered, almost giddy.

Elton raised his eyebrows. He is met with silence.  
"And?" 

Bernie bounces on his toes, smiling ear to ear. "I bought ten cows! For the farm!"

"The hell has that got to do with anything?" Elton's arms cross, his brows furrowed at his best friend.

"I've got a real farm, Elton! I've got three horses, a few chickens, and goats, and now I've got the cows!"

"Good job, Bernie, you're officially a cowboy." 

Bernie grabs hold of Elton's hand again. "I want you to come out to the farm with me."  
Elton sighs, frustrated, but he doesn't let go, "I can't, Bernie, John's not gonna let me leave just to play sheriff with you."

"No, I've got it all figured out. It's a work trip, we'd still be writing and I've got a baby grand in the living room for you. I'll write up a few songs for you. John can't say no to a work trip." He places a hand on Elton's arm. He's absolutely ecstatic.  
He was right though - John wouldn't refuse an opportunity to get more material. They just had to make sure he didn't follow at their heels.

He clenches his jaw as Bernie watches the gears turn in his head.  
Damn Bernie. Damn Bernie and his warm smile and kind eyes and his gentle hands. Damn him.  
Elton straightens up.  
"Let's do it, Sheriff Taupin."

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully chapter 2 won't take too long! I have most of the rest of the fic planned out. Thanks for reading!
> 
> (also, i got the bloody finger thing from a biography on Elton I found - apparently he would literally play piano so hard during shows his fingers would bleed)


End file.
